


The Knight & The Thief

by TheFoodIsPoisoned



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bellamy is a good guy, Bellamy saves Murphy, Burnt Skin, Choking, Cuts, Graphic Depictions Of Blood & Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, I was venting when I wrote this, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intimidating character, M/M, Murphy is scared, Strong sense of fear, Torture, Torture includes, Whump, angst and tension, beatings, but the tension continues throughout the fic, counting with word, don't take the tags lightly, i don't know if there will ever be a part 2 but that's why it didnt end on cliffhanger, literally 6.6k of fear, not a light read, the torture doesn't last long, threats of rape, whumpers unite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFoodIsPoisoned/pseuds/TheFoodIsPoisoned
Summary: After stealing food from the trailers that camp in his forest, John Murphy has his life nearly beaten out of him by soldiers. When he thinks it's all over, he finds himself bound and near naked in a Knight's tent; a most feared class upon the earth.Defenseless and at his mercy, he expects to be broken beyond repair. Yet the man turns out to be much different than what he expected.





	The Knight & The Thief

**Author's Note:**

> Please do read the warnings in the tags! 
> 
> This is basically 6k of fear and tension. Have at it!

Screams and blood and madness. Air thick with fear and pain, dripping above the flames, burning.

Murphy's eyes stinging, but not a tear leaving his eyes. Screams erupting from his lungs, ravaging his throat, words clawing helplessly their way above and below his tongue, coming out as muffled chokes.

His breath is hot, his flesh is hot, coated in his own blood; his mind is ringing. Blows and kicks land on him, the previous not allowing him to prepare for the next.

His body's being torn and getting dragged and tossed around, forced in the hands of faceless owners. They laugh, and from their mouths drip odors of alcohol and mould and poison. The smell and the fire burn his nostrils as he spins from fist to fist, from kick to spit to punch.

Murphy lets out a frustrated cry, soaked in helplessness and fear, his pleas incoherent behind the cloth gagging his mouth, every word lost beneath the blood on his tongue.

And suddenly he's launching forward and then back again, a gurgling sound swelling in his choking throat as hands tug violently at the rope wrapped around his neck. The air leaves his lungs, and refuses to come back down. With gasps and coughs he calls for it, begs it back, and when he finally swallows a gulp of oxygen, his chest only hurts and threatens to crumble.

With his hands tied behind his back, his mouth gagged and his neck in a noose, he still wills his knees to stay standing, his trembling legs to carry him, his body to not fall apart. At the moment nothing else seems to matter other than staying on his feet. No matter what, he has to stay. His mind is running circles, he thinks he's going to vomit at any second, yet he has to –

A sharp pain spreads across his face. His neck threatens to break as his head spins, and he is down, on the dirt and the mud, in a pool of his own blood, his lips almost kissing the ground. He feels a fist diving in his hair and tugging on them violently. It makes his buzzing head to hurt even more and causes tears to escape his eyes.

Murphy can't see. The world is too blurry, too fast. But he can feel the men surrounding him.

They are smiling; He can feel them smiling, smirking, their teeth dripping poison.

He cries out. He tries to crawl, to struggle out of their grips, tries to beg. But he can feel them – _He can feel it._ Getting closer, so close. Coming to wreck him, destroy the last pieces of him.

And he has to stand up. If only he can take it for a little while longer, then maybe he'll live. If only he can force his limbs to move, his knees to work for him. But this dull pain is spreading under his skin and into his bones faster than his blood ever could and holds him pinned on the ground, helpless and at the mercy of strange hands.

Tears crawl up his eyes. And he lets them sting his wounds.

A scream turns into a sob, and he feels them. Their hands. Trailing on his clothes, their nails digging in on his skin. They rip his shirt. What's left of it. Their touch burns and their hungry glares cut and slice beneath his skin. The fire is bright and everything is dark and loud and burning and he's writhing and struggling but none of it matters.

He can't carry his own weight. He can't move or stand or beg anymore.

And it'll happen.

He waits for it to happen.

There’s nothing he can do _but_ wait.

  
It doesn’t happen.

  
Suddenly there's a scream. Deep and guttural and sending violent shivers down Murphy's spine. The voice approaches, angry vocals scratching and nailing at flesh and throat, and everything stills and falls silent, even the boy’s heart and breathing. Then the screaming barks louder, and then it stops and suddenly no hand is touching him.

The boy looks up and sees a man spinning in his vision, looking wild; all muscles and tensed fists and anger raging behind wide dark eyes, dressed in thick black night and walking - _rushing_ \- towards him.

The man stands above the trembling and torn silhouette, almost hovering over the useless body.

On Murphy's tongue there's a plea. A prayer to be shown mercy. Because he lost. And he can feel it in his guts that it's coming. He can see _him_ coming. His hands approaching. And he utters a helpless, muffled whimper, any other words choking in his aching throat.

Big hands grasp on his shoulders, slide under his knees. He squirms and he tosses - his attempts futile, dying too quickly. "No, no, no, no. ." he sobs through the bloodied gag when strong arms circle him, engulf him, and lift him off the dirt as if he weighs nothing.

Murphy's eyes are glazed, lost, unable to focus, his senses constantly slipping in and out of a dark haze. He thinks he's floating into nothingness. At times, he thinks he's dead. But then consciousness is bubbling in his veins and he realizes he's still shaking, his head is ringing, his flesh still screaming with heat and pain.

At some point he realizes he's being carried away and taken closer to the woods, near a tent with a small fire lit beside it. Murphy's guided to the ground, and he's allowed to lean his back against a tree while the man inspects him closely.

First thing he notices is the rope around the boy's neck and the cloth shoved inside his mouth, along with all the cuts and bruises that trail from his cheeks and all the way down to his lower abdomen.

And after that, everything else; the way that he's shaking and how his muscles have gone all stiff and tensed, his chest heaving brokenly with every attempted breath, all the blood leaking from his wounds and staining his pale skin.

Three deep slices seem to be the most dire part that needs to be dealt with. One cuts across the boy’s chest, the other two overlapping from his ribs to his abdomen.

Bellamy knows the boy won't survive unless his wounds are cauterized and bandaged immediately. Only he doesn't like it one bit; To have to watch the fear swell and burst in this kid's eyes, to feel his terror sparking the atmosphere.

Bellamy approaches carefully and kneels down beside the boy. He leans an inch closer; his face coming into the light of the fire, and the boy lets out another muffled whimper, struggling with all his strength against his restraints, suddenly horrified at the realization of who he is with.

Bellamy feels something biting down on the edges of his heart. But he chooses to ignore it. He can either leave the boy alone and let him die, or do what he needs to save him. He draws a knife from his pocket, ignoring the kid's trembling limbs and pleading whimpers, and brings it above the fire until it's burning hot.

Murphy's heart is pounding loudly, his mind going into frenzy as he watches the Knight heating the blade, then bringing it closer. He knows what'll happen to him next, just as he knows that no one will come to his rescue.

  
"No. No. Don’t. Please.”

  
“ _PLEASE. NO._ " he pleads through the gag as the knife approaches his chest. "STOP. STOP, PLEASE!" he yells, his eyes drowning under unshed tears. But the knife burns his flesh anyway. And he just screams until there is no air left in his lungs. And when it's over, the blade moves lower, to his stomach and he starts begging, but no one hears him, no one bothers to.

The man puts a hand over his mouth, "If I don't do this, you'll die." He's saying, but Murphy can't listen. He just wants the pain to stop.

The knife's brought on his skin again and another heart–shattering scream erupts in his throat. The man glances at him apologetically, "I'm sorry." he almost hears him say before burning him again and again, until Murphy's a breathless mess of sweat and blood and fear.

When he's done, the man removes his hand from his mouth, then removes the gag. For a moment, his eyes rest on the frightened boy, letting him catch his breath. Then he approaches, pausing momentarily when the other flinches away abruptly, but still taking him into his arms and carrying him inside the tent.

Bellamy lays him down beside a pillar, careful not to harm him any further. Murphy shallows; He tastes the blood in his mouth, and his vision begins to clear. The man is walking away from him.

He doesn't exactly know what will happen to him. But he's bound and helpless and just about naked inside a Knight's tent and that only leaves him few options. His stomach twists on every thought and he feels his guts climbing on his throat.

The man walks over and Murphy's head is too hot, his blood is burning him all over. He sees him crouching down; He gasps, sparks of life rising in him, and suddenly he's using anything there's left in him to save himself. He thrusts his head against the man's, drawing a surprised yelp from him, and then kicks him right in the chest, sending him a few feet away.

With his bones screaming and aching and his skin still burning, he desperately tries to get away. Dragging himself on his knees, on his stomach. His eyes lock on the exit, as if his life would be saved if he just made it out there.

And he's crawling and crying and the world is spinning and suddenly there are hands digging in his shoulders, and he tries to kick and thrash and get them off of him, but the contact only burns him more and more until he's panting and gasping and he’s lying pinned under a body larger and much stronger than his.

"Calm down!" the man is growling, his voice deep, vibrating against the boy that tries desperately to sink away. "Stop struggling! Calm down!" he shouts and then a hand is on the boy’s chest, too close to his neck, too close the rope still wrapped around it, and it’s holding him down, chasing the air out of his lungs and not letting it back in.

Murphy freezes. He stops fighting, nearly stops breathing. Tear-drops trickle out of his wide eyes and down his cheeks. The air is thick with the smell of blood and terror and Murphy just can't gulp it down.

  
"I don't wanna hurt you." Bellamy says, the tone in his throat aching to get softer,

  
"I don't want to hurt you," He repeats, messy curls falling just above his almond eyes, and he eases the pressure on the kid's chest. Murphy's lips tremble against his will, his body still rigid, unmoving, fearing the smallest sign of resistance will trigger the man.

A shaky breath suddenly slips in his lungs, his chest moves, and he flinches in fear.

"It's okay." the man says, and begins to move away from the boy's lap, ever so carefully as to not startle him again.

Murphy doesn't move a limb, waiting for what will happen to him after his failed attempt to escape from the Knight. His heart beats too fast, or not at all. At this point, it hardly even matters. He feels hands on him and his body's being lifted off the ground and he's put back beside the pillar.

Murphy doesn't fight. He tries to keep himself still, to look as small as possible, when the man crouches next to him and sets down a few objects that he won't even dare to look at. Then the Knight takes out a knife and advances it closer to his face, and Murphy really can't help himself.

He jerks his head to the side, bringing his shoulder up defensively. His teeth dig in his tongue to seal his voice; He waits. But the pain doesn't come.

A hand is placed on his shoulder, warm, but not enough to burn his naked skin, "It's okay." the man soothes and a pair of glistening blues blink open and stare at him under bangs of hair coated in blood and dirt.

Bellamy tilts the boy's chin up and slides two fingers under the leash on his neck. Then he carefully takes the knife and cuts the rope.

Behind the fear in Murphy's eyes sparks a twinge of surprise. He can't understand why the noose is gone, why the man's hands have drawn away from his skin. It doesn't make sense why the air in his lungs burns him less than before. He hears the man talking, and Murphy chokes his confusion behind another sudden flinch.

  
He wasn’t listening. He should’ve been listening.

  
His eyes grow wide.

  
“Easy,” the man soothes.

"I'll take these off," he seems to repeat, pointing at his bound wrists behind his back, "if you promise to behave." And Murphy nods silently, glancing at the man and then on the ground. Because he can behave. He can survive this. He has to.

And maybe if he does, then the air won't burn him for a little while longer.

The next moment his wrists are free and he's hesitantly rubbing circles on his neck, restraining himself from the urge to tear his flesh away along with the feeling of a rope still clinging around his throat.

"Here," suddenly the Knight draws his attention and lifts a wooden cup to his eye-level. Murphy shoots it a glance, then his eyes stay on the man, glinting warily, distrust burning in them.

"It's just water." Bellamy assures and slowly brings his other hand behind the kid's head and holds his dirty hair to keep him steady.

Murphy glances at him fearfully. "Come on." prompts the other, his voice calm, and he parts his lips a tiny gap, letting the liquid slide on his tongue.

The water washes over his tongue, and he almost gasps in surprise. It's not boiling hot as he expected; it doesn't taste like soil and dirt and the man is careful - genuinely careful - to not choke him as he lets him drink. Murphy swallows hungrily around the cool water; he lets it tame the flames down his throat, savoring the sweat taste of each drop. When the cup is taken away from his reach, he can't restrain the whimper that's slipping from his lips.

Bellamy nods, to no one in particular. He refills the cup and holds it, "Would you like more?" he asks and the boy doesn't look at him. His glance falls on the cup and then on the man's feet. Dark laugher swells in his chest, but he doesn't let it show. If the Knight expects him to beg, he's in for a disappointment.

"It's alright." says Bellamy and brings the cup closer, "I won’t make you beg for it."

Then the kid's icy glare snaps at him, almost makes him drop the water. Bellamy stops. He gulps, then grips tighter around the cup, his skin stiffening as chills crawl in his blood.

Under the exhaustion in Murphy's eyes, a flame still burns; It takes the color of winter and rain and a thousand shipwrecks. There's a challenge swelling in his orbs, and he's watching closely. Expecting to be choked or get beaten and hurt at any second.

The man only clears his throat and shifts in discomfort. He lets him drink from the cup; he never hurts him, never raises his hand against him. His expression turns softer, almost worried; his moves are careful.

Murphy watches closely; a bowl with water is set down beside him and the man dips a piece of cloth in it. When he approaches it near his face, the boy has to muster all his strength to keep his limbs from jolting to the other side of the room. His hands and shoulders shake with the effort, his breath dances messily in his lungs.

The white cloth is drawn back before it even touches him. Murphy glances sideways, under his dirty hair, the thick air almost choking him.

"I'm going to clean your wounds." says the man, "And then I'm going to bandage them. Patch them up so they won't get infected." he talks slowly, trying to give the boy time to understand, or maybe answer. "It won't hurt. I– I won't hurt you." he waits, but only silence follows. The kid won't even look at him, eyes pinned straight ahead.

Bellamy sighs inwardly, fiddling with the cloth in his hands. "I can let you do it yourself. If you want?" he offers almost hesitantly. It won't surprise him if the kid just wants to be left alone, he thinks.

Murphy doesn't utter a word, at first. He doesn't know how it'd be possible to; When he's sitting there, with his knees close to his chest and his hands hidden in his lap, half trying to cover his naked body, half because like this he feels like throwing up less.

But then it hits him so hard: the answer to the Knight's question. He gulps to choke back the pain, the anger, the sinking feeling in his heart. His tongue's dragging the words out from the pit of his chest, and they almost tear his throat apart on the way out.

"I can't." He whispers and his voice breaks, his eyes glisten.

Bellamy simply nods, the air thick as he swallows. He approaches carefully, gently. His touches are light, only enough to clean the blood; under his eye first, then down to his chin. Once he makes sure the boy won't pass out on him he moves lower to his neck, where a blue-dark line is starting to appear. It matches his eyes, he thinks, both bearing the aftermath of abuse, the remnants of something beautiful.

Murphy twitches against his will. It's faint but it's still there. He freezes; begs the Knight will just dismiss it.

Bellamy stops right on the spot and draws his hands away. He searches for the boy's gaze, "You okay?" He asks softly and the boy returns it with a short, careful nod.

Bellamy releases a low breath, "We can take a break if you want." He offers again, because he really can't take the sight in front of him.

Murphy tenses even more, if that's possible. He doesn't understand the Knight's game. He doesn't even want to begin and try to. He knows that if he wants to clean him, then he will. If he wants to take him right here and now, then it'll happen.

He nods no, the words dead on his tongue. And Bellamy continues even slower this time. His moves calm, almost comforting. Murphy struggles not to trip into the quiet, the drip-drop of the cloth as it dives in and out of the water, the puzzling gentleness.

  
"What's your name?" asks the man, while washing the dirt and blood from his collarbones.

  
Murphy hardly manages to inhale a breath, struggling to keep his voice from shaking, to make his bloody lips work. He knows it's all in vein.

"Murphy." he says, "John Murphy." and it's too tight. Rough and dry against his throat. The exhaustion and fear leak into it, and the words almost break.

"Murphy." The Knights repeats faintly, as if he's scared to touch it with his lips. "I'm Bellamy." he says after a moment, carefully cleaning the kid's shoulders, trying to ease the tension from them.

Murphy only gives a hesitant nod. His eyes focus on his knees and he tries to ignore the calmness in the man's voice, the way his gentle moves almost sooth him when he knows he should be terrified.

Then Bellamy stops. He cleans the cloth in the bowl, but doesn't move any further, not until a moment later. His eyes travel back to the boy, earth and cinnamon swell in his orbs while they rest delicately on his skin. Every wound is on display for him to see; physical or not.

Guilt makes his stomach feel heavier the longer he stares, the more he watches the boy shifting in-between his bones, breathing shallowly, brokenly, with eyes tired and fixed on the ground. The realization makes his heart sink when it comes: it's his fault.

Murphy tenses, the silence tugging on his brain, and Bellamy coughs softly, dumping his own thoughts down his throat.

"May I clean the rest of your wounds?" he gestures towards his body and watches as Murphy draws his knees closer instinctively to guard his upper body from view or touch.

"If I don't, they might get infected." he mumbles, mostly to his own self.

The boy's still frozen in place, the dark ocean in his eyes almost seems like it's moving, expecting for something to happen. Bellamy tries hard to find a motive good enough to persuade himself that he has to do it anyway. But nothing's nearly adequate to push his hands towards the boy.

Murphy's scared. He's petrified. The memory of the soldiers' hands on his skin still loud and ringing in his head. And now the Knight wants to touch him. And Murphy can't. He really can't. But this is as much his choice as anything else, he knows.

With a shuddered breath he wills his limbs to unlock, forcefully dragging his knees away from his body, until his chest is bare and exposed to the man who minutes ago held a burning knife against his skin.

At least he won't be giving him the satisfaction of watching him writhe and beg for mercy. Murphy can be obedient if it's for the sake of maybe getting hurt a little less.

Bellamy stares briefly at him. He takes in the way his chest heaves and shudders with every inhale, how his rain blue eyes are drowning in unshed tears as he tries to fake a bravery he simply can't achieve. Bellamy almost feels sorry for him. Then he catches sight of his hands, and his eyes widen. He reaches out, forgetting to even warn the boy.

Murphy flinches and jerks his hands away from the man's reach. Bellamy draws back instantly, glancing at the boy and then back to his hands. Murphy waits, feeling his heart in a grip.

  
"I won't hurt you." Bellamy's voice is lower than a whisper; he fears the words might break if he speaks them any louder. "I just want to take a look," he gulps, "I promise." the silence is sitting heavy in his ears.

  
"Please." It comes out deliberately and Murphy's gaze is on him, all storm and swirling oceans.

  
And Bellamy is willing to drown if that's what it comes to.

  
He holds out a hand, and Murphy doesn't know what's happening, he really doesn't, but his own hand is moving toward Bellamy's, still trembling, hot, like it's almost burning. Warm fingers touch delicately around his wounded hand, and he doesn't dare to look at the horror in the man's eyes.

"Who did this to you?" his voice is strained, holding back a growl as he stares at the bloodied limb that's shaking between his fingers. There's nails missing and the skin's torn apart and hot to the touch.

"Your soldiers." Murphy says hoarsely, sounding braver than he feels.

He’s half expecting the man to snap his fingers in half right then. Instead, he sees guilt flashing behind his eyes, and Murphy swears he doesn't know what the hell's going on anymore.

Bellamy coughs and gulps, but the thickness in his throat is just too persistent. "I'll, uh..." He blinks a few times, "I'll clean them up. And then I'll wrap them in some bandages. Is that okay?" he asks and Murphy stares at him for a brief moment, his mind aching to figure out what's happening.

He nods once.

Bellamy then leaves and is back in a minute with a bowl of clean water in his hands.

He's washing the blood slowly; from the back of his hand up to his fingertips. The flesh is burnt and torn there. And Bellamy winces inside and out.

  
It takes a few minutes, Bellamy knows because he's counting, but finally Murphy releases a full breath; His chest starts moving, even his shoulders seem to relax. Nothing terrible is happening to him yet and he begins to believe he'll get through the night.

The Knight works carefully, almost like he cares not to hurt him, and Murphy does his best to contain the moans and whimpers swelling on his tongue behind his teeth.

But then Bellamy tries to rub the blood off his fingertips, and he hisses, jerks his hand out of reach before he can stop himself.

Fearful blues peer under messy strands of hair at the realization of what he's done. And more than anything, Murphy looks like a frightened animal that’s waiting to be punished.

"I'm sorry." Bellamy utters, his voice deep, vibrating with guilt. His fault. Only his fault.

He lets a moment pass, "Let me continue,” He says then, “I won't hurt you, I promise." he assures and Murphy wants to laugh out loud.

“Might be a little too late,” he says and lets the Knight take his hand.

Bellamy doesn't speak. He simply looks down, the earth in his eyes smeared with charcoal and sparks of sad shades.

Murphy wills himself to ignore it. He doesn't care. He _doesn't_. And nothing's clenching at his heart, nothing's tugging tauntingly in his stomach.

  
"Why did they do this to you?" Bellamy asks once he's done cleaning the wounds and starts to bandage the kid's hands.

  
Murphy scoffs dryly, his lips curling around a sharp smirk, "Oh, I must've pissed someone off." he says, and Bellamy looks confused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm the one stealing food from your trailers." Murphy says, facing the ground.

He waits for the realization to drop and the man to snap, but, again, it doesn’t happen. "They caught me. Said they'd punish me for it."

And suddenly it's getting harder to breathe. Bellamy can't breathe. "I –" he chokes. It really was him. What happened to this boy- It all _started_ with him.

"It was me." he mutters, his voice too thick in his throat, "I gave the order."

"Yeah. ." Murphy trails simply, and Bellamy stares at him, his lips are moving, but it takes a few seconds for any sound to come out.

"I didn't tell them to punish you. Not like this." he doesn't know why he's saying this; doesn’t know how it could matter. He can see it in the kid's eyes that it doesn't.

Murphy shakes his head, his smirk laced with poison, "They weren't punishing me. Not yet." Bellamy frowns. "They were playing a game."

He watches as the Knight's jaw clenches and something dangerous flashes behind his eyes, "A game." Bellamy echoes dryly and suddenly Murphy remembers who this man is. What he can do to him. He nods once, but doesn't speak until he hears his name, prompting him to continue.

He takes a breath.

"I had to stay on my feet the whole time.” He explains. “If I could still walk when they were done with me," he swallows around the dry sob climbing his throat, "They said they'd let me go. But I–” he pauses, “I couldn’t.” His breath shakes once it's out his lips, his voice betrays him.

  
"I lost. And you came."  


"What would happen if –" He sees the boy straining to breathe, "What do you mean you lost?" Bellamy asks, his stomach clenches.

Murphy shakes his head, and he can't answer. He really can’t.

He feels a cough tearing its way up his lungs, and he's almost thankful. It's dry, violent. He jerks, and pain spreads all over his body. _Water,_ he begs, _please,_ not sure if the Knight can hear him, feeling one rough cough rising after the other. He grits his teeth and tries to muffle the sounds but it only hurts him worse.

Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder and Murphy nearly jolts away. Cool water nudges against his lips, and he wills them open. Bellamy is keeping him steady, and lets him drink until he moans for him to stop.

When it’s over, Murphy realizes he’s being cradled in the man’s arms, although the hold isn’t keeping him imprisoned, rather giving him all the space he needs to get away. But Murphy doesn’t dare to move.

He gulps, a hand almost as large as his face sweeping the wetness underneath his eyes.

". .Thank you." Murphy mumbles, his voice even hoarser than before and his eyes glinting with uncertainty and shame. Bellamy helps him sit up, rubs a circle with his thumb on his shoulder, his stare soft, warming Murphy's skin. He draws away a moment later.

"Murphy," he starts, and he doesn't have to word the question.

"Please." Murphy whispers, and the quiver in his voice dumps a brick in Bellamy's guts.

"Okay." he says and takes the wet fabric in his hands. "It's okay. Just relax." he hushes. "I won’t hurt you."

He starts to clean the rest of Murphy's body. His eyes fall on the angry and burnt flesh near his ribs, and snap away the next second. His stomach turns, the boy's screams coming back to his mind until they become the echo of his heartbeat.

Bellamy moves slowly, avoiding to put pressure on the purple and black bruises or the occasional broken bone. He eases the pain of the whip marks on his back, and he keeps the need to vomit low in his throat. Murphy almost relaxes under his touch, and in his eyes it's obvious that exhaustion has finally caught up with him.

Once Bellamy's done, he starts to wrap bandages around his torso and his ribs to keep the bones steady and the cuts safe from infection. There's too much silence that just won't match the mess in his mind, and the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Are you still hungry?" he asks without looking up.

Murphy's dark blues turn to him with suspicion.

"No." he utters as his memory jumps to the last time he trusted the very same offer. How the seemingly harmless girl had made him pay back for what she had called 'her kindness'. Murphy had nothing then but the clothes he was wearing. It turned out she really didn't care about clothes after all.

"I'm. I'm okay." he stumbles on his words and Bellamy sighs and draws away to look at him.

"Murphy. You were stealing food." he says and the other flinches.

"I'm sorry." He utters too quickly and his voice burns his lips. "I shouldn't have. I'm sorry." A tremor is caught in his breath, right between his lungs.

Bellamy's features twist into a frown, "Murphy, calm down." He says, struggling to figure out what the boy's thinking.

"It's over. I'm not mad at you. I won't hurt you." He doesn't understand the smile that appears on his lips, the sadness lacing it like some horrid painting.

  
"But I lost." Murphy utters dryly and the gray and blue in his eyes cut Bellamy's breath short.

  
He stares for a long minute, his lips hanging with a small gap. He tries to move them, but no sound comes out anyway. And suddenly, slowly, the pieces start to click.

Murphy had lost.

And then Bellamy came. Took him in his tent. And now here he is, sitting nearly naked next to a stranger, a Knight, afraid for his life, terrified of what he may be forced into. Bellamy's insides twist and tangle.

"What would they do to you, Murphy?" He breathes to keep the threatening growl low in his throat.

Murphy doesn't speak, he won't make a sound. But the trembling spark that appears in his eyes before he can avert them away is enough of an answer.

Bellamy shakes his head.

  
"No." He utters, voice thick and straining.

  
His soldiers wouldn't do that. They wouldn't do that to a kid.

  
Only they would. They had. And it was sick. This whole damn situation. Sick.

  
  
Bellamy feels sick.

  
  
"No." He repeats and kneels near the boy. "This isn't why you are here. That's not why I brought you in here." Murphy looks at him like he doesn't understand a word he's saying.

  
"I won't, Murphy." he chokes, "I –"

  
Suddenly his chest feels too heavy to breathe,

  
"God, no." He shakes his head, disgusted. Disgusted with himself, his men, disgusted at the mere thought–   

  
Bellamy swallows thickly, but any attempt to collect himself is in vein.

  
“I won’t.” He says, he begs, he promises, “I won't.”

  
“I won't force you to – That’s not why you're here.” He’s shaking his head. Eyes wide. Terrified.

  
“It’s not why you’re here. Alright?”

  
“I – I'm not going to. I won't. I won– I won't _rape_ you." he finally spits the word. "We won't do that." he grits his teeth and forces a breath in his lungs, "I swear, I won't do that."

  
Bellamy won't stop coursing himself. He should have seen the signs. He should have realized the moment he saw the boy. It was right there, in every flinch, under the fear in his eyes. And Bellamy had just ignored it. Like he does with anything he doesn't want to see.

  
Stupid. He's so stupid.

  
The words slowly make their way into Murphy's head, and they're so hard to process. His heart starts pounding with hope while his mind's still shouting in weariness and stress and he just wants to turn away from the world and throw up his confusion.

  
“You…” He tries to wrap his mind around it, “You won't…”

  
“No. Murphy. I swear.” _Please believe me._

  
The boy gulps down a breath. “What will you do to me?” he croaks, his voice strangled in the back of his throat.

  
“Nothing. I swear, _nothing._ ” But he can see it in the way Murphy’s shaking that he doesn’t believe him. “Look at me, Murphy,” He says, and the boy obeys instantly.

  
“It’s over.” He utters. “No one’s gonna do anything to you.” He stares into the boy’s eyes, his own browns expectant, burning and glistening.

  
Murphy only takes half a breath. Bites down on his trembling lips, until the pain is so hot he doesn’t feel it. He grits his teeth. Tastes the blood on his tongue.

  
“You don’t want to –”

  
“No.” Bellamy stops him.

  
Murphy looks up again, and in his eyes there are tears; his chest shudders as some of the tension evaporates in his lungs.

  
“Okay,” he whispers, voice barely there.

  
“Should have started with that.” He says, eyes still checking the man warily.

  
But Bellamy returns his sarcasm with not a blow, but a huff, something almost like a chuckle. All breath and channeled anxiety, like his soul can't take the strain anymore.

  
"Your soldiers," Murphy starts.

  
"They won't lay a hand on you." Bellamy doesn't even let him finish and it takes everything in his power to not sound the way he feels. It's the least he can do, he thinks.

The boy doesn't deserve his anger. Never did.

  
He hadn't even thought twice as he gave the order for the thief stealing from their carts. But it had all gone away the moment he saw a defenseless kid pleading under his men's fists.

 _  
"They are killing him!"_ he now recalls Jasper yelling as he burst in his tent, mastering a look of horror and disgust and pure accusation all at once.

  
"They won't touch you again, Murphy, I promise. They'll answer for what they did."

  
Murphy stares at him for a long minute before he chases his gaze away. Bellamy sighs softly, aching to ask what's going on in his mind. But even then, he knows Murphy will only give the answer that he thinks Bellamy wants to hear.

"I will clean this up," He says and starts to rise to his feet, "It's late."

Murphy doesn't speak, his eyes drop on his lap. "Right." he breathes, "It is."

  
“What happens to me now?” He asks, “Will you let me go?”

  
Bellamy turns to him. He can see the boy is dreading the answer, yet he doesn’t have anything better to offer.  

  
"No." He says quietly and the boy stills.

  
"No." Murphy repeats, not looking at the man, like he'd been stupid to hope.

  
Bellamy's heart catches in his chest. He really isn’t used to this.

“You can't go anywhere like this.” He tries to explain, “We’re in the middle of the woods. The nearest town is miles from here.” He says, but obviously Murphy doesn't like the sound of it; his eyes narrow, suspicion and fear that now look familiar returning in his wild blues, so fast and so easy, Bellamy thinks they never really left.

He sighs, "Can you even walk?" he asks.

The question strikes Murphy and he falls silent. His gaze travels across the room,

"No." he mutters.

Bellamy nods, stealing a sympathetic glance at the boy.

"You are free to leave once you get better." he promises. “You’ll stay here until then.”

  
It’s not an offer. And if it is, the man definitely doesn't know how to make it sound like one.

  
Murphy shakes his head. "I have nothing to pay you with."

"That’s not a requirement." says Bellamy. "You can sleep in my bed. _Alone._ ” He adds when he sees the kid's wide eyes snap at him.

“Murphy…” The Knight starts quietly, gently, and on his lips, his name sounds like a prayer. “There's nothing to be afraid of.” He sooths, "I'll just sleep on floor.”

The fear in Murphy's eyes shifts into puzzlement, "You're a Knight." he says.

"I am." replies Bellamy, tilting his head in curiosity.

"You can't just sleep on the floor." Last time he checked beds weren't for thieves. Nothing good was meant for people like himself.

"Says who?" Bellamy says, crossing his arms over his chest. Murphy swallows, drops his gaze.

The other looks at him softly. "Calm down. You don’t need to be scared, Murphy." He walks near him, still keeping his moves measured in the back of his mind.

"Tomorrow I’ll request for another bed on the opposite side of the tent." He says calmly, "Does that sound good?"

Murphy doesn’t look up. He just nods.

"I can't send you out there like this.” Bellamy tries to apologize. “It'd be the same as killing you.” and Murphy knows it's the truth. “You'll be safe. I won't do anything to you.” he promises, “A knight can't do wrong on his word."

And Murphy doesn't feel sure nor safe. Even now. Even with a Knight’s word. A promise. Something that he knows is sacred. But words are still words, and Bellamy knows it, too.

While Murphy's scars are there, still clear, engraved in the core of his eyes and scarring his skin.

The boy shakes his head, sighing in defeat.

He’s tired and out of options and with some luck it'll turn out that the man indeed does right to a Knight’s word.

Murphy nods, "Alright." he says and Bellamy stands close to him, extending an arm for him to take.

"Let me help you up." he offers with a gentle smile. And Murphy lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey peeps! Hope you liked this fic and that it was even a little bit of what you expected!
> 
> If you did, _please_ leave a **comment and kudos,** guys! This story is actually important and very dear to me. It gave me an out in a very hard time in my life. 
> 
> That's why I'd love to know what you guys think of it! Even a simple "huh" in the comments would make me smile. I swear.  
> Tell me what you liked or what you didn't and what you'd imagine for the future if there was one!
> 
> You can always find me on my Tumblr, richard-harmon-gifs!


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